Mushrooming

Jeffrey Harrison
Christopher and Helen, our new expatriate
friends,
meet us at their favorite winery
where they fill their plastic jerry cans from hoses
exactly like the ones at gas stations,
as though they were planning to go back home to
Aix
and treat their lawnmower to a nice red.
Instead, they take us in their forest green Peugeot
to the home of their old friend Brigitte
in a village at the foot of Mont Ventoux
actually, not a village, Brigitte corrects me,
but un hameau, a hamlet. The French
are exacting about such distinctions, but Brigitte
has a kind, mischievous smile. Back in the car,
we tear along a series of rutted, stony roads
that web the mountainside, with Brigitte
directing Christopher, droite, gauche, encore
gauche,
until we come to a grove of pines, cedars, and
oaks,
where she says the mushrooms are hidden.
We fan out under the trees, searching the slope,
while Brigitte, looking elfin in her orange hoodie,
waves a stick like a wand, pokes at the dried pine
needles
or the dead leaves under the wild boxwood
bushes,
and sings, I think there are some over here,
like a mother leading her toddlers toward the
Easter eggs.
We laugh and follow after her, cutting the stems
with a tarnished knife she lends us, warning
Faites attention, because the blade is sharp.
And gradually we fill our plastic shopping bags
with gnarled orange caps, stained green,
which, much later, back in the States, I learn
are called Lactarius deliciosus or
orange-latex milky, like a shade of paint,
the field guide commenting edible, although
not as good as the name deliciosus suggests
but we already suspect that (they look awful),
and we will later unload most of ours on
Christopher and Helen who clearly think of them
as a delicacy but right now were
having fun just hunting for them
among the sunspots on the forest floor,
filling our bags, and shouting through the trees
to one another, the whole afternoon gathering
into the giddy moment that Brigitte keeps
calling us back toand its delicious.